Lament for Dr. Frankenstein

There is no word for digging in the rain,
but it should have a wet sound to it. For us,

the act of creation is like doing the foxtrot with crutches

except I would not crush your toes, you’d crush mine
and together we’d have a miserable sort of grace. For the sound,

sledging, maybe?

None of my birdhouses, bookends, or recipes
have hated me for making them, though once

the folded tail of a paper tiger

slit the skin under my pinky nail. Though
I think it was an accident.

Victor, I like the structure of dance.

My apologies, but we need
to compare the interpretation of grief

to grief itself. You didn’t know Jane

but she tells me, too often to ignore, that beauty is dead

and because I believe her when she says she has suffered
more than I have, I’m distrustful of what she says.

But she may be right.

Victor, no one ever listened to you for the same reason no one ever listens:

you can’t trust a person in pain
to decide what’s best for themselves.

Everyone’s part of some wild orchestra
rattling the chandelier of an empty concert hall.

You’ve got to speak up just to hear the whispers.

Since we’re playing for us Victor, let’s cut the bullshit:

when it comes to you,
these are two of the things I regret:

and one:
if you were dumber you’d never be a monster

and two:
you could never have been any dumber.

and three and turn.